Sure, these were construction workers talking, men used to the process of moving building materials until those random piles of bricks and lumber and nails and paint had coalesced into a place people could move all their things into, box by box. And from there these people could also begin the process of moving things: food to mouth, dishes to dishwasher, laundry to drawers, cars to work, small bodies to bed, and eventually, their old bodies from this earth to Heaven.
We all know there are almost countless books on the subject--organizing books (moving stuff), self-help books (moving self), cookbooks, money management guides, travel guides. Shoot. Even that book about bird watching is about catching one of them in your binoculars before they head South or up or wherever they go.
If you've ever picked apples or green beans or crocheted or taken a walk, you know the comfort found in the rhythm of movement. Fingers over guitar strings. Batter mixed by hand. Bread kneading. Writing the alphabet in different order, so you make meaning. If you've ever loved someone, this is the greatest movement of all.
There's a reason why we say something moved us. To be called from the shore into the deep water.
Under the weight of all the things in our lives that need moving, it's easy for us to feel overwhelmed. I mean, take a look at my current "this needs to be moved" list:
Pretty soon, I'll need to move these into the garden.
I need to move a lot of the words in these books into my brain. I should send that movie to Grandma and move a TV downstairs and hook that converter box to it. I'll have to move that downstairs, too.
These clothes need to be folded and moved to drawers. From there they will move to adventures unknown on the day they are worn.
I need to move all this canning stuff that Grandma and Aunt Dottie passed on to me. First I need all those plants you saw above to grow some vegetables that I can move from the garden to my kitchen.
Here are some of those vegetables from last year. They still need to be moved into my stomach.
These shoes need to be moved so it doesn't take 15 minutes to find matching footwear. And just like the clothes, on the days we decide to wear them, they'll move all over tarnation and back.
This is just a random pile. I don't even know where to move everything in it.
Someone needs to move my coat into the closet. And that quilt contains another quilt inside of it made of my Great Grandma Smith's old dresses. Grandma sewed this fabric over the top of it to protect it. Someday I'll need to move the secret of this fabric into another pair of hands.
All these sticks need to go somewhere else, preferably not in my yard.
These flowers need to grow, so they can move my heart to all things joyful and abundant and beautiful and temporary and precious.
I need to move some comments onto these essays.
And then I need to move the words in these books into Nora's brain.
In conclusion, none of this exhausts me. In fact, I feel rather like I've been given the gift of good work to fill the days and the time and the prayers.
"The Lord your God will bless you in all your harvest and in all the work of your hands, and your joy will be complete." --Deuteronomy 16:15
Keep on keeping on, folks. There is joy in that movement. And don't you ever think you'll get it all done because you won't. Thank God.